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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28097040">Je Reviens</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cegodfre/pseuds/cegodfre'>cegodfre</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Lilith%20Sedai'>Lilith Sedai (orphan_account)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera &amp; Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 20:55:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,829</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28097040</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cegodfre/pseuds/cegodfre, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Lilith%20Sedai</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Miserable in her marriage to Raoul de Chagny, Christine tries to return to Erik, but he has replaced her. R. Angst, romance, first-time.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Je Reviens</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Je Reviens<br/>by Cara Liane (Lilith Sedai circa 1990) (lilith_sedai@hotmail.com)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Who is the third who walks always beside you?</p><p>          When I count, there are only you and I together</p><p>          But when I look ahead up the white road</p><p>          There is always another one walking beside you...</p><p> </p><p>                              --T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Christine woke with a start. Faintly the light of dawn illuminated the small bedroom in the English cottage she shared with Raoul de Chagny.</p><p>Christine rose silently, careful not to awaken him. It was a lovely morning. She slipped into a nankeen summer dress and let herself into the kitchen. She opened the top half of the back door, which faced East into the rising sun. Dawn pinkened the jet black sky, washing away the cold, twinkling stars. She pulled a shawl close around her shoulders to keep off the light breeze.</p><p>Blue morning glories twined on the arbor in their garden, their sweet scent made even richer by the light dew. A slender rim of the sun crept over the horizon. Its rays sparkled in her silent tears.</p><p>She heard a stirring from the bedroom. Rapidly, she pulled a small lace handkerchief from a pocket in her dress and wiped her eyes quite dry. Raoul must not see her cry, not here in this paradise he had created for her, using the money he had saved before he met her. She must not let dreams of her past interfere with the life she had chosen. She tucked away the bit of lace and stood quite still, gazing out into the garden. She listened to his footsteps crossing the kitchen.</p><p>Raoul's hands grasped her shoulders and he bent to kiss her neck. She accepted his caresses, her sadness deepening beneath her pleasant features. "Not now," she would have liked to tell him. "I'm not in the mood." When had she begun to notice that their feelings were no longer in synch? Had it been their wedding night?</p><p>Raoul stood behind her happily, watching the sun rise.</p><p>During the three long years since Christine had married Raoul de Chagny, she had come to realize that life with him was not the romantic dream she had anticipated. She had looked forward to sharing this quiet, peaceful life with him, but a vague disappointment was growing ever stronger in her.</p><p>She was forced to admit that the beginnings of her current sorrow had been present even during their earliest days in Paris. For instance, he hardly ever listened to her or took her seriously. This was not a new development. During their first days together, he had gone so far as refusing to believe Erik existed. He had dismissed the very idea as a figment of her imagination!</p><p>When he finally believed her (only after he had seen Erik himself), he had insisted that she must aid him in plans to destroy the Phantom. She had been made to betray her teacher so that he would be captured or killed. Raoul had treated her like a child, ignoring her feelings as a matter of course, assuming they mirrored his own.</p><p>He still does that, Christine admitted to herself. And now he treats me like a possession, as well. She sighed quietly. He expected her to take an innocent joy in being his devoted wife, his loving and unquestioning child, her every thought bent on serving him, with her every happiness dependent on his own. That was the way she had once been, and surely it was the way she should be... if not for Erik. Raoul was so different from Erik!</p><p>Raoul left her side and sat at the head of the table. Christine moved to light a fire in their stove, doing her duty. They could not afford a servant. They had left Paris without even notifying Raoul's older brother Phillipe, the Comte de Chagny. It hadn't made any difference, for Phillipe would have disinherited Raoul anyway, to punish him for allying the family with a chorus girl. Raoul didn't often speak of his loss of status, but there were things he took for granted, little services which she felt duty-bound to perform, knowing no one else would. He hardly missed his servants; Christine had replaced them.</p><p>Absently she looped her hair into a bun behind her head and stacked coal and kindling. Her delicate hands were calloused, marked with the small burns and scars of housekeeping. She straightened up, sighing. There was something she wanted to discuss with her husband.</p><p>"Raoul," she set the kettle on the stove to make tea. "I spoke with the priest just the other day."</p><p>"Yes, of course," Raoul rubbed his palms through his tousled hair absently.</p><p>"He's asked me to sing 'Ave Maria' at Mass Sunday," Christine turned to him, her eyes shining with anticipation. "He heard me singing in the woods on my way to the market."</p><p>Raoul frowned. "I don't think that was very wise of you, Christine. We have too many bad memories of that sort of thing, don't you think?"</p><p>Christine's face fell. "It's not like I planned for him to hear me. And as for singing in church, I thought it would be rather nice. I've missed my singing very much."</p><p>"Don't accept his offer," Raoul said decisively. "Word might get out. You could even be recognized. I don't want that madman to find us on the strength of a rumor. Tell the priest you can't." The matter settled in his mind, he stood and meandered back into the bedroom to choose his clothes for the day.</p><p>Christine bit her lip angrily. A thousand scenes and more, all ending just the same way. From her singing to a plan for planting rosebushes by the walk, from buying a new dress to writing letters to her friends in Paris; he laid down his word as law and her opinion simply didn't matter. She must abide by her husband's decisions without complaining. Not this time, she decided. She moved to the doorway and looked in on him as he rifled through his shirts, idly disarranging what she had carefully folded.</p><p>"Raoul, Erik once said to me that even the most pleasant life would be nothing without music--"</p><p>"Please!" Raoul held up his hand to silence her. "Let's not even think about that pitiful creature. Poor dear, it must have been terrible for you to be imprisoned with him in that awful cellar." He chose a shirt, turned, and patted her cheek. "Call me when the tea's ready, won't you?" he went to the pump and drew water in a bucket. She watched, miserable, as he carried the bucket into their room for a cold bath.</p><p>Christine's eyes overflowed again as she turned her back on the closed bedroom door and gazed out the window into the garden, where the grass sparkled with dew. A dismal puff of ashy smoke rose from the stove and informed her that the fire had gone out. Their modest cottage had not yet been linked to the new electricity, that service being reserved for wealthy city dwellers.</p><p>Raoul began to sing as he went about his bath, his tone wavering between sharp and flat as he paid no attention to vocal technique. She winced at a particularly sour note. He could sing well enough when he paid attention, but he didn't really care enough to do that very often.</p><p>Unexpected resentment rose in an angry tide through her soul. He can sing, but I can't, is that the way of things then?</p><p>Two minutes later, Christine found herself dashing across a rolling field, her skirts sodden with dew. Freedom! Her hair was no longer wound up tight as befitted a wife outside her home, her cheeks were pink, and her breath came fast. Startled cows raised their heads to watch her pass. She skimmed the fields and darted through stiles. Her footsteps fell to a walk as she lost her breath, and she eventually stopped at the edge of the single highway which crossed the pleasant countryside. Many coaches and horses used this road. Even now she heard the jingle of a harness and the pleasant thud of horses' hooves.</p><p>Her decision was made in an instant. Taking a deep breath and standing up straight, Christine stepped into the road and hailed the oncoming coach as it came over the hill. The driver pulled back the reins and looked down at her impatiently. Christine drew out her purse and produced several small coins. The man jerked his thumb back at the coach, and she climbed in. The wooden coach held a single sleeping gentleman, well-dressed, and boxes of various goods on their way to be traded in nearby villages.</p><p>The road slipped past. By the time Raoul discovered her absence and traced her path through the fading dew to the highway, Christine was several miles from the small farm she had shared with him.</p><p> </p><p>Raoul de Chagny dismounted from his horse and examined the small prints of his wife's shoes in the dust of the road. The fresh tracks of a carriage headed eastward, into the rising sun. The sweet song of the birds was lost on Raoul's ears as he flung himself back onto his gelding and spurred it down the road. How foolish of her to run off without saying a word! His pride stung him, setting his comely mouth in a hard line. Why on earth did she run off? Hadn't she been happy?</p><p> </p><p>Christine felt nervousness rising in her. An uneasy foreboding of disaster grew in her heart. If Raoul were to discover her absence and follow, he might well catch this slow carriage within the hour. She hesitated and briefly considered abandoning her reckless flight, but the thought of their latest argument helped her make up her mind. Fumbling a coin from her purse to pay for her short journey, Christine laid it on the seat. She opened the door quietly, never disturbing the snoring passenger opposite her. He would never even know she had been there.</p><p>The coach moved so slowly that there was little danger. She slipped to the ground easily. Her skirts brushed away her footprints as she hastily left the road, and she was grateful to find that the morning dew had dried.</p><p>She set out determinedly, following a hedge row paralleling the road. If memory served, the highway intersected with another not many miles ahead. The ringing clatter of a galloping horse assaulted her ears. Heart pounding, she flattened herself to the ground behind the dense bushes, hoping not to be seen. The sound of clattering hooves passed her by.</p><p>Losing her nerve, Christine abandoned the road. If that had been Raoul, he would find the coach almost immediately. He would backtrack to look for her.</p><p>After three hours, Christine felt footsore and thoroughly tired. She had borrowed a bareback ride on an old mare, enough to cover several miles of fenced pasture belonging to a single landowner. The ride had given her a chance to think about what she had left and where she might go. Her relatives were dead, her friends scattered. Even Meg Giry had married and left Paris! She had read about it in the society column of a newspaper.</p><p>However, there was still one place Christine knew she would always be welcome, one friend who would greet her return wholeheartedly and offer her refuge. Christine had someone who would never care what society thought about a young woman who ran away and left her husband without even making his morning tea. Christine had Erik, who would never abandon her.</p><p>No longer afraid, she returned to the roadside, hoping for another coach to pass. The main problem would be crossing the Channel... the fare would take all the coins in her purse, and she always grew seasick on a long voyage.</p><p> </p><p>Several weeks later, weary and penniless, Christine walked into Paris. She had slept little and eaten less during the final days of her journey. Her shoes were worn through and her dress stiff with dust, but her heart felt light. She had eluded Raoul several times on the road, as easily as Erik might have avoided an unwanted visitor in the dank catacombs of the Opera.</p><p>The thoughts of meeting with Erik sustained her as nothing else could. Of course, Raoul had guessed her intentions. However, once she was reunited with Erik, she defied anyone to find her or take her away against her will.</p><p>The familiar streets were noisy and busy, and she blended easily with the Parisians, who came in all stages of wealth and poverty, cleanliness and squalor. There were hostels for the homeless in which she might spend the night and be given a bath and clean clothes to wear, but she did not care to accept their stern charity. She would not be admitted into the Opera House in her ragged, filthy dress, but Erik had shown her other ways to enter his catacombs.</p><p>She let herself into his lightless realm through the dank gate in the Rue Scribe. Her old, tarnished key was the only thing remaining in her purse. Her heart began to race with anticipation. She could hardly imagine a reunion with her Angel. He had left a candle in its usual place by the door, and she lit it happily. She shielded the flame with her hand, the light glowing through her fingers. She hurried toward the lake. Her presence there would trigger his alarm, and he would come out in his boat to get her.</p><p>The warm ring of soprano song echoed faintly in the stone corridors, a poignantly familiar sound of rehearsal. She smiled with her memories of the Opera, her steps quickening. By some trick of acoustics, the singing seemed louder as she drew closer to the lake. Hurrying around the final corner, Christine stopped dead in her tracks, just short of the outer wires of his electrical alarm system. The singing had grown louder, and the voice of Erik rose and mingled with the female voice she had been hearing!</p><p>Christine sank to the earth, her breath leaving her in a faint moan. It could not be, and yet it was...</p><p>Erik had replaced her.</p><p>The faint rumbling of the pipe organ sent ripples visible across the black water. A single rat skittered away with an angry squeal. The damp mud of the floor penetrated the ragged cloth of her skirt, and she became aware of the intense chill which bit into her. Across the lake, the voices rose in triumphant crescendo. Trembling, Christine tried to rise, but she collapsed back onto the ground. The many days without enough rest and with hardly any food had taken their toll on her. Now the idea of the workhouses for the destitute seemed much more attractive, and aside from the roofless streets they would be her only remaining alternative, but the shock of her discovery had stolen the strength from her legs.</p><p>At last, the wild powerful song climaxed and silenced. A piercing headache rang in Christine's ears with the final echoes. How long had she sat there, dazed, with song flowing past her unheeded? The catacomb muck clung to her hands, and she wiped them on her dress. A little more dirt could hardly matter. Why had she ever left Raoul? She let the candle drop from her fingers and abandoned herself to weeping.</p><p>Christine was still sniffling quietly when soft splashing noises emerged from across the water. She recognized them as the familiar sounds of Erik poling his boat. A glimmer from his lantern shone through the mist. Desperately she struggled to rise, and failed again. Her pride rebelled against the idea of Erik and his lady finding her in this state!</p><p>Exhausted from weeping, she dragged herself backward on her hands and knees, tearing the hem of her skirt. Gasping, she managed to creep back into the mouth of the nearest passage, onto the cold hard stone. If only he missed her, she could rest there in the dark until she grew strong enough to rise and leave. Unable to go any further, she collapsed into a limp heap, her body resembling a pile of muddy, forgotten rags.</p><p>Erik disembarked from his boat, his hand possessively guiding a tall, sensual girl to walk in front of him. Unable to resist the temptation to look, Christine caught a glimpse of the lovely woman's wide, bright blue eyes, her inviting figure, and her cascade of silvery blonde hair. Christine's shoulders shook with freshened sobbing, but Erik's eyes were fastened on his newest treasure. The rays of lantern light did not penetrate far into the darkness, leaving her concealed in the shadows.</p><p>As soon as they had gone, Christine struggled to a sitting position. Her hopes had turned to despair. She must leave this passage; Erik was not likely to miss her twice. He probably wouldn't even recognize me, Christine thought bitterly. Not through the muck and filth. She dug her fingers into the crevices between stones and hauled herself to her feet, taking a few tottering steps back toward the way out. She had left her candle at the lakeside, so she guided herself by trailing her fingers along the cobwebbed walls. She must find a place to stay before nightfall.</p><p>Not long after she had left the cavernous passages, Erik returned to the shore of the lake. No longer distracted, he quickly noticed the marks and tracks she had left in the mud. His eyes narrowed. The traces were clearly fresh. What foolhardy invader had dared to venture into his forbidden territory? Keenly he traced the marks of her passage, his displeasure growing. Obviously, this intruder had known exactly how to approach his home. He followed her path to the exit from the catacombs, where it vanished.</p><p>He stood alone near the gate, looking into the bustle of the Rue Scribe, fingering the dirty, dropped candle he had retrieved from the lakeside. The lock was undamaged, so his visitor must have picked it, or perhaps even stolen a key. Erik did not know the motives which had driven the unwanted visitor, but he had lost one woman already, and did not intend to risk losing another.</p><p>He returned into the catacombs after securing another chain about the gate to protect against future entry. Carefully he retraced his steps, searching along the way for further signs of the trespasser. He sifted through the disturbed mud by the lake and he found a ragged bit of fabric, which he rinsed in the dark, silent water. The mud reluctantly relinquished a tattered scrap of rich blue nankeen and Bruxelles lace.</p><p>Erik tested the fabric's texture between his thumb and forefinger. No man had worn that rich blue cloth, that feminine lace. It must have come from a woman's dress. This explained the small footprints and the short strides. But what woman knew of Erik's dwelling on the lake? What woman would wilfully approach his domain, only to slink away, unannounced by his cunning alarm? What woman, indeed. His breath caught. If he had come a moment sooner, he might have caught her.</p><p>He resolved not to miss such an opportunity again.</p><p>The next day, when he spied the Vicomte de Chagny thundering into Paris like a summer storm, Erik's guess at the identity of his mysterious visitor was confirmed. His heart ached, for he understood only too well why she had crept away.</p><p>He returned to his house on the lake and sat quiet in his dark chair, meditating. He knew Raoul would make his fumbling way down into the cellars.</p><p>At last the Vicomte stood beside the lake, shouting threats and imprecations. It would not do to let the boy go out and summon the police, Erik decided reluctantly. He rose and went out in his boat, silent as a cat.</p><p>Raoul quieted when he spied Erik's lantern. He held his patience long enough for the boat to draw up, and for the Phantom to step onto the shore.</p><p>"Where is she?" he demanded, shaking his fist.</p><p>"I don't understand you," Erik's voice was deceptive in its bored calm. Even now, the foolish boy forgot all sense in his anger, and left his tender throat undefended against Erik's lasso. What other fool could make the same mistake twice, and go unpunished?</p><p>"You know exactly what I mean! Where is Christine?" Raoul raged, his eyes flashing.</p><p>Erik ran a detached, contemptuous gaze over the nobleman. "She is not here," he answered simply, after a long pause. "I have not seen her since the night she left with you."</p><p>"You, Monsieur, are a liar!"</p><p>Erik's eyes flashed with angry sarcasm. "Do you doubt my word, then? How very just you are to call me a liar after I surrendered my only love, knowing she would be your bride!"</p><p>"I demand to see her!"</p><p>"Very well!" Erik's icy hiss sent a needle of cold fear through Raoul's red-hot rage, sufficient to silence him. "You may come into my house, and feel free to take whatever you wish! You will not find what you seek, for I have spoken the truth." He veiled his menace with exaggerated hospitality, gesturing Raoul into the boat.</p><p>Ashamed of the indignity in coming to his wife's lover but unable to resist the offer, Raoul stamped into the boat.</p><p>Erik poled them across the lake, his gestures sharp and angry. What had this young fool done to send Christine running? He should have been killed long ago. Erik reluctantly resisted the desire to harm Raoul, feeling that Christine still would not wish it.</p><p>He moored the boat and stepped out onto the wharf gracefully. He stalked up to his door, throwing it open. Candles flickered in the rush of air, and some were extinguished.</p><p>Rudely Raoul shouldered into Erik's lair. He poked into every small nook, peering into chests and trunks in search of signs of his beloved. In the room which had been Christine's he found feminine furnishings and a rack of dresses. With an exclamation of triumphant anger he snatched up a red velvet frock, examining it closely. However, it was clearly too large and too long for the slender Christine.</p><p>Raoul whirled to face Erik, his face twisting with disgust. "You've seduced another girl, you monster!"</p><p>"That is none of your affair," Erik's voice grew steely, a tantalizing promise of death. "You have stolen happiness from me once. I assure you, you will not live to do so again!"</p><p>Prudently, Raoul put down the dress and changed the subject. "If Christine comes to you," he commanded, "You will send her to me at once."</p><p>Erik bowed with overstated courtesy. "Of course, sir." his voice dripped with contemptuous irony. "I am ever your obedient and grateful servant." He stood aside, clearly impatient for Raoul to leave. "I have no desire for further dealings with you or any wife of yours," he remarked cuttingly. "You need have no fear of that."</p><p>The knowledge of Erik's new conquest satisfied Raoul as nothing else could have done. In his rattled state of mind he did not notice Erik's deliberately cryptic phrasing. As far as he was concerned, the outsized dress proved to him that the Phantom no longer cared for Christine. Anxious to leave so that he might resume his search, he did not consider the rage and hatred which blazed in his old rival's eyes.</p><p>"Very well, Monsieur," he admitted grudgingly. "I apologize for the intrusion." He did not try to meet Erik's eyes. "She took very little money. I assumed she would come to you in her need."</p><p>Erik did not answer him. Raoul might leave the cellars of the Opera alive this day, but he was not forgiven for the intrusion or for the undisclosed wrongs which he must have done to Christine to make her run from him, back to Paris, without even pausing to take extra money.</p><p>He shadowed Raoul from far behind, watching the Vicomte wind his way through the maze and leave. Raoul did not hesitate, which indicated his suspicions were relieved. That was all to the good.</p><p>Erik waited in darkness as Raoul left the Opera.. His mind was in turmoil. Christine had left her husband to return to her Angel, and found her place taken by another. Where might she have gone? He drew out the tattered bit of cloth.</p><p>His fist clenched involuntarily and his eyes flared. All thoughts of his newest singer had vanished from his mind the moment he first heard Raoul de Chagny cursing him across the lake. "If Christine is not well and free when I find her, Monsieur, you will not live to see the next sunrise!" Erik buried his own guilt for Christine's pain in that threat. Pulling his wide-brimmed black hat low, he slipped out into the sunlit world which hated him, vowing to find his love.</p><p> </p><p>Christine had guessed that Raoul would soon arrive in Paris, for he had been close behind her on the road. So rather than retreat to an obvious sanctuary for the poor, she found the warm wall of a bakery oven to shelter against during the night. After eating a stale, stolen brioche she slept well, for the night was fair and still.</p><p>Come morning, she returned to the vicinity of the Opera, awaiting Raoul's inevitable arrival. She felt quite inconspicuous, wearing boys' clothing and a shabby hat which she had taken from a trash heap. To complete the disguise, she clutched an empty wine bottle in her fist.</p><p>Her fears proved true when Raoul's horse clattered down the Boulevard des Capucines. Her husband reined the beast in savagely, dismounted, and shouldered his way bluntly into the Opera. She bit her lip anxiously. In truth, she did not believe Erik would kill him. Still, it was not wise for Raoul to choose to confront him in such a mood of anger.</p><p>Now she would have two to avoid, for Raoul was hardly subtle. He would surely let Erik know she had run away from him and returned to Paris. She sighed. Erik was more cunning by far than Raoul, and if he chose to look for her, he would be much more difficult to hide from. She was determined to elude both of them, but it would take a while for her to earn enough that she could afford to leave the city.</p><p>During the course of her absent-minded musings, her eyes settled on a poster advertising the evening's opera. Faust, of course. The ultimate irony. Resentment rose in Christine. The posters plastered everywhere on walls featured Erik's blonde diva in the role of Marguerite. She was tall and dignified, with impertinent blue eyes and a buxom figure. She also had a good voice, Christine was forced to admit. It was little wonder she had caught Erik's eye, and his ear. The brazen little bit of fluff!</p><p>Christine slumped against a wall, feigning sleep, with her head tucked well down. She kept an alert eye on the Opera, impatiently waiting for Raoul to emerge. If he did not come out within the hour, she knew she would be forced to go in after him.</p><p>Her vigil was rewarded after only a short time. The Vicomte de Chagny emerged from the building, his strong pace indicating his continued good health. Christine breathed easier. Despite her decision to leave him, she had not wished him ill.</p><p>Raoul did not pause to consider his surroundings, but immediately he climbed onto his horse and trotted away.</p><p>The next sight she saw froze Christine's breath in her throat. From the very front doors of the Opera emerged the figure which haunted her dreams. Usually he was reluctant to appear in broad daylight, but today he did so, wrapping his heavy cloak close and pulling his hat down to shade the revealing white mask. She could feel his sharp glance pass over her as he surveyed the street. His eyes lingered on her for an uncomfortable moment. Gracefully he strode toward her, his black boots striking the cobblestones rhythmically. Even in the daylight, his strides were those of a powerful hunting cat.</p><p>She fought to keep her breathing even, glad of the hat and the smudged dirt which obscured her face. Her hair, braided and tucked down her collar, would not reveal her, for many boys in Paris had never benefitted from a barber's steel scissors. The loose smock of a shirt hid the other signs of her femininity.</p><p>Erik paused at her side, nudging her with his toe. "Boy," he addressed her, his voice commanding.</p><p>For once, Christine was grateful for the hard work which had roughened her hands and broken her once-long fingernails. She let the hand which clutched the wine bottle roll from her lap limply, earnestly hoping that Erik would take her for drunk and continue on his way.</p><p>His boot shoved her again, less gently. "Wake up," he demanded impatiently. She did not stir. "Another boy will earn these fifty francs," Erik stepped over her impatiently. Christine held her sigh of relief until he was far down the block.</p><p> </p><p>Erik turned a corner at full, impatient speed, and then stopped short. His eyes narrowed critically. Something was not right about that street waif. No boy that old would run the risk of being caught in this section of town, sleeping on a main thoroughfare in broad, shining morning, in such an obviously drunken condition. He would be taken by the gendarmes, beaten, and probably jailed, as well.</p><p>On the other hand, Erik mused, what would be more intelligent, and more convenient, than for Christine to wait in plain sight, keeping a vigil for Raoul and himself, to see how their inevitable meeting came out?</p><p>Shouldering aside anybody who got in his way, he rushed back to the spot. Only the green glass bottle remained. Erik picked it up, rolled it in his hands. The bottle's neck was still warm from her grasp. Furious with himself, he flung it against the cobbles, where it shattered. He had missed her again! He glanced about sharply. She was nowhere in sight. His jaw tightened. She had chosen her position well, for he could not be certain which way she might have chosen to make her departure.</p><p>Erik picked a direction at random and set out. She had grown clever, and overtaking her would be more of a challenge than he had originally thought. He renewed his resolve to hire a street child to help in locating her. Such an ally could pass almost anywhere unnoticed and would not send her into hiding on sight.</p><p> </p><p>Stopping her directionless flight, Christine rested her back against a lamp post, trying to slow her heart. She paused there for several minutes, catching her breath and letting her racing heart slow to a more normal pace. The unexpected encounter with Erik had gone unbelievably well, but he could have penetrated her feeble disguise all too easily.</p><p>But oh, his voice, and the memory of him towering over her! She had almost forgotten the commanding aura of his presence, the way the intangible pressure of his gaze awakened--</p><p>Angrily she banished those thoughts. She pushed away from the post and set out to put some distance between them. Her pride had been sorely injured by the discovery of his new ingenue. She did not need him any longer, she decided. After making it this far on her own, she knew she could survive without Erik or Raoul!</p><p>Her heart rose with hope. She had made her living with her voice before, and she could do so again. She would sing in the streets for money, until she earned enough that she could leave the city and start her life over again.</p><p>Christine made a side-trip, retrieving her dress from the deserted side-yard where she had left it. It was hardly fit to wear, but to carry out her plan she had to have a woman's clothes, and she could rinse the dress out in the waters of the river. She hurried lightly down the street, pleased with herself. She would cross the Seine. Erik rarely wandered on the Left Bank, and she knew many hymns which would please those who visited Notre Dame and the other cathedrals.</p><p> </p><p>Erik returned to the Opera quite late that night. He had stalked the rooftops, avenues, and alleys of Paris. Everywhere he passed, his threatening eye had sent those he passed-- the ragged children, the innocent citizens, the homeless derelicts, the vicious cutthroats, and the haughty gentility-- seeking safer locations. Christine was nowhere to be found. He feared that she had already left the city.</p><p>Bitterly he stalked the empty, chill passageways and catwalks of the Opera, his private hell. His patience had failed him. Once again he had dared to reach out of his solitude, and once again he had paid the price. Happiness was not for him!</p><p>He raged silently against the cruel fate which denied him love and a normal life. He had told Felicite he would come for her this evening and bring her to his lair for her lesson, but Erik knew that he would never return for her again. Fortune had cast its curse on the small joy he had found in her.</p><p>Erik climbed onto the roof of the Opera, under a moonless and starless sky. Paris lay before him in all her evening glory, the old gas street lamps flickering and dying in the damp wind from the river. Christine was still out there somewhere, he decided, and whether she admitted it or not, she was waiting for him to find her. He could feel it now, like a silken thread which bound them together. She would not leave without some last encounter, some final turning point to make clear the course she must take.</p><p>He moved to the very brink of the roof, where the wind made his cloak take flight behind him in the dark, a raven's beating wings. If only he could, he would fly to her, arrow down, tumble her against him and rise with her into the sky. Like a bird of prey, he would bear her back to his eyrie, to hold her close and kiss her passionately until her half-hearted resistance melted away. Here, looking out over the city, their hearts would open to one another and he would sing to her the song he yearned to sing, a song which she would answer with all her heart.</p><p>His fists clenched with helpless longing as he visualized the two of them together. An unbearable pain wrung his heart. He had never dared to express the true strength of his desire for her, fearing that he would frighten her away. He had always treated her with tenderness, he had taken great pains to respect her modesty. He must admit that he had often watched her as she slept, but he never surrendered to his consuming need to reach out and stroke her soft skin while she was sunk in vulnerable, trusting slumber. Even in her waking hours, he had restrained himself to carefully chosen touches, never making an unwelcome caress or gesture of affection.</p><p>Christine had hardly guessed the untamed extent of his passion, the violent emotions which denied him sleep and sent him instead to prowl the Opera, which drove him to return to her bedside over and over again so that he might watch the gentle rise and fall of her breast, and memorize the curl of hair against her cheek.</p><p>He might have taken her, seduced her... there had been moments when he was certain he would not have to use force, times when he could hardly resist her as she sang with him, her voice throbbing through him, her eyes brilliant and her skin flushed, her body already given thoroughly to his music. She would have yielded to him readily enough in those early days, dazzled by his voice and the power of his personality. But he had never taken advantage of her innocence. He had wanted her to belong to him because of her own feelings for him. He had wanted her to give herself willingly and with love. Surely the hour would come, he had believed. He need only have patience.</p><p>But then the thieving Vicomte had come into their lives and stolen his beautiful angel, lured her from Erik's side with his youthful good looks and the charm of his title. Christine's love for Raoul had been childish first love, unworthy of the depths of her character and the unstirred passions in her soul. Still, it had been strong enough that Erik lost her to it.</p><p>He had tried every method he could devise to keep her with him. He had come very close to breaking his vow that Christine must stay with him of her own will. But even if he had kept her with him by force, he would never have forced her into his bed. Never. That was a sin so black that even a confirmed murderer such as he must refuse to commit it... no matter how much her lovely presence tormented him with desire.</p><p>A spatter of rain touched Erik's face, like the tears of angels, startling him out of his contemplation. More drops followed, as the heavens opened and poured forth their sorrow. Did she have shelter from the rain? His fists tightened at the thought of her wet and shivering in some roofless back street, perhaps huddled under the meager shelter of the dripping eaves of a building, or crouched in a doorway trying to escape the heartless wind.</p><p>"I shall find you, Christine," he vowed.</p><p>He took the swiftest route back to street level. He would not rest until he found her. Erik prowled the city again, insensible to the rain dripping from the brim of his hat and streaming down his cloak to the puddles in the street. Tomorrow he would meet with the boy he had hired, and see if the child had fared any better than he.</p><p> </p><p>Erik's fears for Christine's comfort were unnecessary, for she sheltered well enough that night. The destitute of Paris gathered on rainy nights below bridges such as le Pont Neuf, huddled around fires made of stolen coal, discarded rags, and broken furniture. Even the least wealthy of the painted women, those who did not own the price of a permanent room, had been deprived of their custom by the piercing rain and took shelter there, laughing and nervous. Christine lingered at the fringe of one tattered group of girls rather than rest near the ragged desperate men or the small, sullen family groups. She slept lightly, her dreams restless and filled with clattering hooves, menacing shadows, and a fruitless search for something she could not find.</p><p>Morning dawned, steaming the rain from the city, and Christine ventured from below the bridge in her damp, washed dress. Yawning behind her palm, ladylike, she made her way to the cathedral of Notre Dame, and placing the hat from her disguise down on the cobbles, she sang softly. Deliberately she did not allow her voice to travel more than half a dozen yards into the bustling noises of the city, but many of the passers-by who came within hearing paused, smiling. Coins dropped into the hat at a steady, appreciative pace. A small knot of people gathered, its members melting in and slipping away unnoticeably. The shifting crowd shielded her from any unwelcome eyes.</p><p>Before noon she had earned enough coins to buy food, and she tucked the few banknotes she had been given into her bodice. They made an excellent start toward the price of passage from France. Her voice was tired, and the longer she remained in one spot, the more uneasy she felt. Unlike Erik, Raoul had frequented this part of the city. He might decide to seek divine intervention in his search. He might come to this very cathedral.</p><p>Christine melted away toward the southeast, eventually leaving the more heavily travelled parts of the city.</p><p> </p><p>At the appointed hour, Erik kept his rendezvous with Claude, the boy he had hired. As he had assumed, it had been easy to persuade the child to help him. Erik felt certain the promise of more gold would inspire him to work hard.</p><p>Claude was eager and fearless, and his eyes were impudent, carefully investigating the depths of the cowled hood Erik now wore. He swaggered forward with the air of one who has important responsibilities.</p><p>"Well?" Erik produced five francs impatiently. They disappeared immediately into the boy's grubby hand.</p><p>"I haven't seen her," Claude answered smartly. "But I know one who has," he added hastily, aware of Erik's increasing tension. "One of the lads says that he saw her this morning. She was singing like a lark on the street corner, for money." He gauged his mysterious patron's reaction.</p><p>"Where?" Erik's single question hung between them, as the boy dug his toe under a loose cobble.</p><p>"That's just it," the wayward Claude explained. "He can't remember. He wasn't looking for her properly, you understand, since he didn't know about her until later. He said it was near the cathedral."</p><p>"Which one?"</p><p>Claude rolled his eyes dramatically. "The cathedral. Notre Dame."</p><p>"Perhaps I should hire this friend of yours instead of you," Erik remarked drily. He suspected the boy of lying. The young imp had surely seen her himself.</p><p>"No. I'll find her!" Defensively Claude lifted his chin. "I know where everyone stays in the night. I'll search all the places, and I'll take you to her."</p><p>Erik considered the child's plan. He had no better ideas, other than to check the vicinity of the cathedral himself. Even as they spoke, valuable time crept away.</p><p>"Midnight, then?" Erik questioned.</p><p>"Even later than that. No-one sleeps before two."</p><p>"Three."</p><p>"I'll be here," The waif nodded. "And if you are not?"</p><p>"I shall be here," Erik spoke, knowing he would not come if he found Christine himself.</p><p>Wisely, the boy nodded. He knew as well as Erik that if he did not find Christine first, he would never see his wealthy benefactor again. He vowed that he would find the woman before evening fell.</p><p>"Have you seen the Vicomte?" Erik questioned, remembering his rival.</p><p>"No," Claude replied.</p><p>"Watch for him," Erik instructed. "If he finds her, he will take her away, and you will get no gold."</p><p>"I will watch, Monsieur." Claude wondered shrewdly if he could find a way to make even more money from this deal.</p><p>They went their separate ways, each bent on finding Christine, but not for the same reasons.</p><p> </p><p>Raoul de Chagny also patrolled the city streets, riding a horse he had borrowed from one of his friends, for he had lamed his gelding. He cared nothing of Erik, not suspecting that the elusive Phantom also sought his beloved in the avenues of the city.</p><p>His angular face was set in a bitter expression. He still did not understand what had made Christine go so suddenly. Could it be disappointment over his suggestion that she should not sing at Mass? That never should have earned such an extreme reaction! Humiliated anger rose in him. His wife had run off without a word and returned to Paris, where she had lived the sordid life of a performer, and where she had once been held prisoner by an evil man... these things burned his noble pride.</p><p>He rehearsed in his mind the words he would say to her when he found her, writing scenes of scathing criticism or tearful remorse as his mood alternated between wrath and regret.</p><p>In any case, he promised himself, Christine would return with him. She was his rightful wife, she had to do as he said. Anyway, the fiend had found himself another innocent victim, and Christine knew this, or she would have been there with him in the house beyond the lake. Raoul could imagine her penitence once he found her. He would put an end to her little game of hide and seek, and she would easily be mollified. Or if not, she would still return home with him. He would see to that.</p><p>Raoul's tense hands on the reins made his horse dance on the cobbled pavement. Finding her would be only a matter of time and searching. She couldn't have a penny left, so she couldn't leave the city. This thought in mind, he urged the horse on faster, his keen eyes scanning the crowds.</p><p>Keen eyes scanned Raoul, also. Claude observed the tall, blond man, obviously wealthy, clearly searching for something or someone, wearing the face his dark, mysterious employer had sketched with deft, confident strokes... Claude's eyes followed Raoul with interest. Luck had dealt him a winning hand. Perhaps this one would pay even more richly than the other.</p><p>"Monsieur!" Claude's high-pitched voice cut through the crowd. "Monsieur le Vicomte!"</p><p>He was rewarded when Raoul's head jerked around, astonished.</p><p>"Perhaps I can help you, Monsieur," Claude's smile was wide and crafty, as he caught Raoul's horse by the bridle. "It is possible that you are looking for someone, yes?"</p><p>"Yes," Raoul admitted, realizing the possibilities inherent in hiring assistance. "I am."</p><p>"That is good," Claude nodded. "for I am very good at finding people, Monsieur."</p><p>"Are you indeed," Raoul's eyes brightened, and he took a gold coin from his pocket. "Then perhaps you will help me."</p><p>Claude smiled at the sight of gold. "We understand one another perfectly, Monsieu le Vicomte. Tell me of this person you seek."</p><p>Raoul was so pleased to oblige that he forgot to ask how the boy had known his title.</p><p> </p><p>Erik's search in the vicinity of Notre Dame proved useless, as he had feared. Impatiently he patrolled the streets through the St. Germaine Fair, ignoring the beggars and jugglers who got in his way. He steadfastly refused to admit his fatigue. His boots thumped heavily on le Pont Neuf and yet he did not know that Christine sheltered beneath, resting after her morning of singing. He continued on his way implacably.</p><p>An idea was forming in his mind. He would find that lying boy and follow him. Then he would be united with Christine as swiftly as possible, and he would not risk losing this battle to the sly treachery of a greedy street child.</p><p>With this in mind, Erik turned his attention to finding Claude again.</p><p>Near evening he succeeded, observing the boy's slight figure darting between market stalls. A silent shadow, he dropped in behind, never wavering or losing track of his mark in the shifting crowds. The boy made little effort at searching, he noted. Then it was true, he had found her already.</p><p>Erik's guess was correct, for Claude had seen Christine again, and he had located her sleeping places from the previous two evenings. Skulking in shadow, the boy maneuvered his way deeper into the heart of Paris, with an obvious goal in mind. Erik pursued him, wondering if even now Claude led him to Christine.</p><p>He discovered his error as the cocky brat rounded a corner and cordially greeted Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny.</p><p>Infuriated by his confirmed suspicions, Erik scaled the wall of a house like a spider and slipped across the roof until he was directly above them, where he could hear their conversation.</p><p>Raoul handed the boy a purse of money, and in response, Claude murmured a location into the Vicomte's ear. Erik could not hear, and his heart raged.</p><p>"But not now, Monsieur!" Claude warned. "There are many who stay beneath the bridge. If she were to resist you, they might come to her aid. You should wait until all are asleep, very early in the morning, perhaps at three-thirty. Then you can go in quietly and take her away. I will take you now to see that she is there, and then you may pay me the rest of the money." His voice was insufferably smug.</p><p>Erik's anger grew cold. Did the scamp intend to collect his money, also? That must be the plan. He would meet Erik, show him where Christine slept, and disappear with his pockets filled with gold, leaving Erik and Raoul to meet and fight over Christine beneath the bridge.</p><p>However, Claude had not counted on the cleverness of the Phantom of the Opera.</p><p>Erik trailed the two across the city, watching veiled in darkness as the boy pointed out Christine's silhouette beneath the bridge. He had to restrain Raoul, who wanted to stalk in and get her immediately. Erik could not hear their voices from his vantage point, but he saw the child talking rapidly, persuading Raoul to wait. The treacherous Claude accepted payment and watched Raoul stamp away purposefully, then he sauntered toward a different part of the city, heading for his rendezvous with Erik.</p><p>Erik lost no time in making his plans. He could not count on Raoul to wait as the boy had advised. The man was far too impatient to listen to the advice of a boy, no matter how sensible it might be.</p><p>As he began considering his options, a harlot approached him from off the main street, her smile too wide and inviting. She came close, sensed his strangeness, and eased off. She lowered her eyes, a gesture which communicated her fear of him.</p><p>"Wait," his soft voice calmed her, interested her. "You would like to earn some money."</p><p>"Oh, yes, Monsieur," she murmured seductively, looking up and trying to see into his hood.</p><p>"I am glad," he murmured, drawing back imperceptibly into shadow, so that she followed him without realizing. "For I have money, but there is something which I do not have."</p><p>"I have what you want, Monsieur." she tried to sound confident, attempting to look under his hood, lifting her bosom suggestively. Unable to see his face, she did not give in to the temptation to step still closer.</p><p>"You will not be asked to work hard for this money," Erik put all his reassurance into his tone. "I want you to deliver a message for me."</p><p>"Very well, Monsieur. For a price." She fluttered her eyelashes, flirtatious.</p><p>"Indeed," Erik agreed. "We shall find paper and ink in your room?"</p><p>"Yes, Monsieur."</p><p>"Very good. Lead me there, quickly. Here is what I want you to do."</p><p> </p><p>Christine stood timidly at the small fire, warming her hands. The small group of people remained unsettled, and some of the more drunken men were singing songs. None of the call-girls had come beneath the bridge yet, but the first one of the evening ducked around the corner even as the thought passed through her mind. The woman was one she had not seen before, but she walked right up to the fire, daintily raising her skirt above the mud. She warmed her legs, ostentatiously lifting her skirts to mid-thigh like a can-can dancer. Christine averted her eyes, embarrassed.</p><p>"You're Christine, aren't you, cherie?" The woman's voice sounded surprisingly kind.</p><p>"Why do you want Christine?" she answered, immediately going on the defensive.</p><p>"I met a nice man in the street. Very wealthy," the draggled woman's nod was meaningful. "He gave me a note for Christine. Are you her?"</p><p>"What did the man look like?" Christine met the woman's eyes anxiously.</p><p>The woman laughed loudly and with evident enjoyment. "His money was bright, and his clothes were dark! I never saw his face." With some difficulty, she regained control of her mirth. "Odd, that was. What's more, he gave three times what I usually get, and didn't even ask me to roll for the money!"</p><p>Erik. It could be none other. "Where is my note?" Christine urged the woman tensely.</p><p>"Then you are Christine. Of course you are." The woman laughed again, expansively. "He said it was urgent." She palmed a small white folded paper from her neckline, which was as low as it was well-endowed.</p><p>Christine fumbled the note open, forgetting to thank the woman, whose dark brown eyes watched her keenly as she opened it. The note, which was in Erik's familiar script, read simply: "Raoul has found you."</p><p>Christine drew in her breath sharply. She glanced about frantically, feeling hunted. It never occurred to her to doubt Erik's word, for after revealing his initial deception and explaining the true nature of her Angel of Music, he had always been absolutely honest with her.</p><p>"If you don't want to meet this Raoul you'd better get going, cherie. He told me there wasn't much time." The woman gave Christine a sly grin.</p><p>"He read you the note?" Christine remarked with confusion, snatching up her small bundle of things.</p><p>"I watched him write it," the woman stated. "I can read," she explained with pride.</p><p>Christine hesitated a moment, then slipped into the night.</p><p>Erik watched her from the crest of the bridge, his eyes pursuing her slight figure as she fled into the night. He made no other move to follow her. She knew where to find him, should she want him. The time was not yet ripe for him to confront her.</p><p>The bedraggled woman Genevieve followed Christine's path from beneath the bridge. Erik noted her approach and nodded formally to her. She made her way up onto the bridge and stood at his side.</p><p>"You have done well." He pulled out more money and presented it to her.</p><p>"Point this Raoul out to me, my friend. I'll give him the runaround."</p><p>"You will know him," Erik predicted with certainty. "He is tall, blond, handsome, stupid, and very wealthy. He will reward you richly for information about Christine."</p><p>"And I will tell him she has gone away. She planned to leave Paris by boat. She was lonely, and heartbroken. She confided to me that she was bound for America," Genevieve repeated her assignment, laughing. This man intrigued her as her many 'patrons' never had. He was so graceful, his every move filled with inherent commanding power. The glance of his unseen eyes sent delicious shivers up her spine. She wanted very much to lift away the cowled hood and see the face which belonged to the lovely, persuasive voice. She touched his shoulder, suggestively sliding her hand down to his elbow.</p><p>"Surely there is enough time before he comes," she murmured, her brown eyes inviting, the feather on her hat bobbing against her shining curls. "You have paid me well, and I have done little to deserve such generosity."</p><p>"There is no time," Erik turned her down politely. "Perhaps another night," he added untruthfully, guessing that her continued interest in him would encourage her to perform her task faithfully. "Adieu, cherie." He brushed her cheek with his powerful, graceful hand, the tender touch almost sad.</p><p>"Adieu," Genevieve murmured, watching him melt away into the night. His voice reminded her of something she could not remember, and her heart stirred in a way she did not understand. Regretfully she returned to the tawdry group beneath the bridge, awaiting Raoul.</p><p> </p><p>Much later that night, Christine found that her nervous wandering had brought her to the doors of the Opera. Timidly she crept inside. Everyone slept, and nobody remained to throw her out, recognize her, or stare pointedly at her stolen boyish rags, so inappropriate in the grand foyer. She had tucked the silent white paper into a pocket of the boy's clothing she now wore, and now she took it out. Erik's handwriting, the message plain and understated.</p><p>"Raoul has found you."</p><p>So simple his words were, yet the reaction they brought in her was quite complicated. It was unlike him to express his concern in writing rather than in person. The Erik Christine had known would have appeared out of nowhere and spirited her away with him, allowing no questions and offering no choices. Did the note express his indifference to her, or did it indicate his willingness to allow her to make her own choices?</p><p>At any rate, it could not be indifference. Her mind reeled between conflicting emotions. He must have known where to find her himself, to have the note delivered. It would have taken him some effort to find her and to keep track of Raoul. Yet he had not come for her himself! That confused her.</p><p>Still, he had guessed she would not wish to be found, and he had warned her of Raoul's imminent arrival in good time. The conclusion was inescapable: despite his new diva, Erik still cared about her enough to devote his time to looking out for her safety and contentment.</p><p>With surprise, she realized what truly upset her. He had not come for her, and she was disappointed! She was forced to admit that she wanted him to take the decision out of her hands. The revelation disturbed her. The fear that he might have stayed away, preferring his new singer, disturbed her still more.</p><p>She must take some time to think, someplace where she would not be interrupted. She had to consider the implications of her new self-awareness carefully. The roof of the Opera had always been her favorite retreat, where she could sit in the clean air and let her thoughts wander, her mind free as the heavens. Christine made up her mind to go there, where she could think without interruption.</p><p>After climbing to the highest level of the Opera, she stepped out onto the flat rooftop carefully. Above the glow of the streets the evening was much darker than she had expected. She could not see her hand before her face, and she wished she had thought to bring a candle. The night was filled with wind, and overhead the sky was sooty, velvet black with no moon. Even the canopy of stars seemed remote and distant. She closed the door behind her, relaxing. Feeling the way with her small foot, she headed toward the nearest edge of the roof, anticipating the view of the Boulevard d'el Opera.</p><p>Christine paused, trying to force her eyes to adjust to the dim light. Surely there was a familiar dark silhouette standing before her?</p><p>She made herself relax. Of course she would imagine she saw Erik. It was reasonable that her eyes would deceive her, given her preoccupation with him and the memories called up by walking through the familiar corridors of the Opera. She took another step, and another.</p><p>The wind rose. A velvety night-wing brushed Christine's face, and she nearly cried out. The dark, looming silhouette was real! Her eyes were adjusting to the dim light now. Only steps in front of her, he stood poised on the very edge of the roof, leaning into the wind, his cloak blowing back to caress her cheek... her heart gave a dull, sick thud and leaped into her throat. Was he about to jump?</p><p>"No!" Christine cried without thinking, rushing forward and snatching his trailing cloak in her small fists. "Don't!"</p><p>Startled by the sudden cry, he whirled like a cat, his graceful motion impeded by her hold on his cloak. Feeling his balance waver, he sprang back from the edge, sweeping her back also, to keep her from any danger of falling.</p><p>She felt his arms encircle her firmly, pulling her back from the dizzying height. For a moment, she simply leaned against him, shaking, her hands still entangled in the folds of ebony velvet.</p><p>Church bells chose that moment to chime, ringing from distant parts of the city. Their melody filled Erik's heart. Carefully his strong hands loosened her grasp on his cloak. In one hand, she still held the note he had sent to her. With gentle fingers, he folded the note and gave it back to her.</p><p>Christine's tear-filled blue eyes met his, mirroring the faint light of the stars. The glory of the bells surrounded them, binding them together for a long, long moment. Christine wavered first, her chin sinking and the tears welling over her white cheeks.</p><p>He let her go and backed away, giving her space to compose herself. She swiftly caught his wrist in her hands, her eyes pleading, pulling him away from the edge once again. Her hands were cold with tension and fear. He let her move him, understanding that she thought he was about to jump. He felt himself smiling down on her, an unfamiliar sensation for both of them.</p><p>"Don't be frightened," he spoke softly, touched by her concern. "I would not have fallen."</p><p>Christine's cheeks went scarlet in a rising flood of embarrassment as she realized the truth behind his words. He had merely been standing there looking over the city and thinking, as she had planned to do. His customary disregard for his own safety had led him to approach the edge in the most dangerous manner, balanced on the verge of falling. She felt foolish, made vulnerable by her display of panic at the thought he might jump.</p><p>"I see the Vicomte's hunt is fruitless tonight," he remarked, sparing her feelings by changing the subject. "His quarry did not wish to be captured."</p><p>She shook her head imperceptibly. "Perhaps not," she quavered. Her heart had still not slowed from the fright she had taken. "At least, not by..." she trailed away, knowing she had spoken too much of her honest thought.</p><p>"I'm grateful for your warning," she improvised to change the subject, not meeting his eyes. The words felt stiff and awkward. She felt resentment rise in her, and the image of his blonde soprano rose before her eyes. "You should not trouble yourself on my behalf."</p><p>"There is no trouble," she could feel his eyes burning into her. "You could never trouble me."</p><p>"Oh, but I have!" Christine herself was shocked by the open bitterness in her voice. She discovered that she still clasped his hand tightly, and she dropped it, her eyes flashing. "I have interrupted your life most shamelessly!"</p><p>Regret battled elation in Erik's heart. His beloved Christine cared enough to be jealous of Felicite! "She is nothing to me," he spoke earnestly. "Nothing at all."</p><p>"Not so," Christine contradicted him fiercely. "You have brought her into your home. She sings for you!"</p><p>He gestured impatiently, as if he were brushing away her words. "She is not you." His eyes burned into hers steadily. "And so, she is nothing."</p><p>Christine shook her head, annoyed.</p><p>"Would you condemn me to solitude, the long days stirred only by bittersweet memories of you?" his voice, haunting and insidious, touched the depths of her being. "I had nothing to live for without you. You gave me no hope that you would ever return."</p><p>She had no reply to his simple explanation. He was right. No amount of jealous anger could justify the expectation that he must spend the years of his life alone and unloved. Still, a question nagged at her mind, devoured her sympathy against all reason. She could not bring herself to ask it, but she could not let it rest.</p><p>"Then you would choose me over her," she burst out recklessly, though it was not the question of her heart, and though she knew how it would wound him for her to ask a question to which the answer should be plain. "You would take me back and never think of her again, gladly."</p><p>"Yes," Erik spoke with quiet conviction. "I would... if I were given the choice." He turned his face away slightly, the expressionless white mask hiding his pain.</p><p>Despite his sincere vow, jealousy overran Christine, uncontainable. She turned from him. She must know. Had he loved this woman? Had the two of them shared an unspoken bond of gentleness, had they enjoyed the same intimate, tender moments which he had given her? Had they... had they shared more than he had shared with her? Had the little chit given herself to Erik? Her eyes flashed with unreasonable fury at the thought, and her tiny fists clenched. He had been hers alone!</p><p>Erik watched her inner debate uncomfortably, clearly seeing her unspoken distress, but confused by its strength and wondering at its cause. This woman had left him in solitary anguish and married a man he hated. After she fled Paris, Erik had spent many long nights in sleepless misery, tormented by the image of Raoul with Christine in the marriage bed. If he was willing to forget those images and that pain, surely she should forgive him his short, unfulfilling association with Felicite.</p><p>"Do you love her?" Christine managed to speak clearly through her anger, still facing away from him.</p><p>"No." Erik put all the denial he could into that small word, but she did not turn back to him. "She merely kept me from going mad in solitude," he explained. His eyes narrowed at the glimmer of realization which kindled within him, a realization brought on by his memories of the jealousy he had borne for Raoul's intimacy with Christine. "Felicite and I only sang together occasionally," he clarified, hoping it would be enough. "I am sorry you heard us together. She does not have your talent, nor do I care for her strongly. I have not seen her since I learned of your return to Paris. I do not want to see her again." He stopped, reluctant to continue.</p><p>Still she did not turn. Her shoulders shook, and he wanted to comfort her. He laid his hand on her stiff arm, but she shrugged it away. There was one thing left which he could say, he knew, and throwing away caution, he played his final card. "Felicite and I were never lovers," he spoke quietly, trying to keep the pain and anger from his voice. "I have never made any advances to her. She has never offered herself to me. Is that what you need to know?"</p><p>He knew that her jealousy might not be a sign of any willingness to give herself to him, or even to return to him. She had always been thoughtlessly selfish, like an innocent child, and it was not really surprising that she could not bear to share his affections with another, even though she would not allow him to demonstrate them to her. He sighed patiently, his anger melting away. She could not help her reaction to his terrible face and her continued revulsion to him, caused by the murderous deeds he had done.</p><p>Shame washed through her at his candidly honest words. She buried her head in her hands and wept. How cruel of her, to demand his faithfulness, when she lay nightly in her husband's-- his hated rival's-- bed!</p><p>Her tears were too much for him to bear. He stepped in front of her. Moving carefully so as not to upset her, he guided her head to his shoulder and wrapped his warm cloak around her shoulders. He let her cry herself out, his eyes searching the stars. He no longer cared whether she was treating him fairly or not. All he cared about was her presence, and barring that, her happiness.</p><p>Eventually her sobbing subsided. "I'm sorry," she murmured, pulling back and wiping at her eyes with her sleeve. "I have no right to act this way."</p><p>He shook his head to silence her. "Erik is yours," he said simply. "You may do with him as you please."</p><p>She drew in a shaky deep breath. "I do not deserve him," she murmured. "He should be more careful of where he bestows his favor."</p><p>Erik decided to change the subject. "What did Raoul do to send you running back to me?"</p><p>It was Christine's turn to provide uncomfortable answers. "Nothing," she finally mumbled, evasively.</p><p>Erik laughed, his voice rich with his love. "Touche, madame."</p><p>Instinctively, he glanced to the east, where the false dawn had begun to show upon the horizon. "It is cold for you here in the wind," he remarked. "Perhaps we can continue this discussion elsewhere."</p><p>She followed him obediently, and his heart sang with triumph. He had done right in answering the unspoken question. She was coming home with him, once more...</p><p>He led her down through the Opera to the catacombs, moving confidently, in complete mastery of his domain. Once within the damp stone walls of the cellar, he motioned for her to walk on before him. She did so, unaware of his appreciative eye. Her hair had escaped its intricate braid in wisps, making a halo about her face. The smudges of dirt enhanced the beauty of her high cheekbones, and the masculine trousers clung to her figure. He had never seen a woman wear such trousers before. It was distinctly pleasant to watch her walking trustingly before him.</p><p>The three years and the last few days in the city had deepened her, enhancing her confidence. No longer so much a lost child, she had become a woman with her own reserve of strength. She was irresistible. Erik wondered if she realized it.</p><p>"Raoul did nothing to me," she remarked suddenly as they climbed from the boat. He opened his door, ushered her into the house she remembered so well.</p><p>"Nothing?" his eyes flashed, sending a lovely tremor through her. "He has displeased you. That is enough." He took her hand, stroking it gently. "If you will stay with me," his whisper resonated through her, "You will never roughen your pretty hands again." He lifted her hand and kissed her palm. When she did not draw back, he kissed her fingertips as well. His lips were warm and soft and his eyes glowed with the intensity of his devotion to her.</p><p>Dizzying fire spread through her, made her cheeks hot. He had always affected her strongly, even though she had refused to admit it for such a long time. He could still make her senses respond as if to an electric current, and he made her doubts and fears flow away in a flood of sensual enchantment.</p><p>Shyly she lowered her eyes. During those many days she had spent here alone with him, in rapt captivation and delicious fear, her only thought had been that she must take care not to rouse his swift temper... she blushed harder, knowing how innocent she had been. Now she knew that she should have taken care not to rouse other feelings in him, feelings perhaps more dangerous to her peace of mind than his unpredictable fury. She took a long, wavering breath, trying to dispel her sudden uneasy exhilaration.</p><p>He gestured to the door of the room which had been hers. Inside, all her things were arranged as if she had never left them. He took pride in her obvious pleasure. Felicite had left no mark on the room, as she had left none in his heart. He had swept her few things away, weighted them with stones, and sunk them in the deepest part of the lake, replacing them with Christine's, which he had kept through the long years.</p><p>Christine stroked the smooth wood of the boat-shaped bed, sunk in the memories of the first time she had awakened there.</p><p>"I regret that I haven't prepared for your comfort," he remarked. "There is no hot water ready for you to use. I will light the fires and heat water so you may bathe." Erik moved to leave the room. "You will find your clothes where they were before. After you have bathed you should rest."</p><p>She turned to him, her eyes shining. "Thank you." she hesitated. "But what about Raoul?"</p><p>"You need not worry," he spoke confidently. "He is seeking you elsewhere." Probably, he thought sardonically, in the comforting arms of Genevieve.</p><p>She accepted his reassurance, forgetting Raoul.</p><p>When he returned at last, she shyly watched him as he left a steaming basin of water ready for her in her luxurious bath and closed the door behind him. She was glad of the opportunity to cleanse away the dirt of the road and the city. She washed and rinsed her hair, then lingered over the sponge bath till the water grew cool, and dried herself with the soft towel he had provided. She then slipped into the expensive nightgown which waited for her, which he had selected and laid across the bed.</p><p>Timidly she wrapped a dressing gown around her shoulders. The bridal gown she had worn for him was no longer there in the wardrobe. She had taken it with her when she left with Raoul. Her eyes filled with tears, as she remembered the stricken expression on Erik's face when she left him that second time, after she returned his ring.</p><p> </p><p>He sat quietly in his chair in the next room. He forced his mind to consider a troublesome bar in his latest composition rather than allowing himself to picture her sweet, bare shoulders and her fragile, translucent skin.</p><p>She had come home to him. She might be his this time, he guessed. Her jealousy of Felicite was a good sign. Perhaps she had even thought of him, wished for him, deep in the travails of her miserable marriage.</p><p>He heard the whisper as her door opened, and he listened with pleasure to the hushed sounds of her feet as she approached him. She was lovely in the soft half-light, her hair all damp ringlets. She pressed his hand gently. "Good night, Erik," she murmured.</p><p>The casual caress surprised him, for it was unlike her to touch him of her own accord. His eyes turned up to her face, sending a shiver down her spine. In that instant, they both knew she should not have come out. The moment lingered between them, charged with rising tension.</p><p>For the first time, Christine fully understood the deep, haunted look in his eyes and recognized the tautness of unfulfilled desire in his posture. After three years of marriage, she knew much more of the passions of a man than she had when she last spent time with Erik. She had been such a child then, she had not truly realized how her chaste feminine presence tormented his body... she felt her heartbeat quicken.</p><p>Against her will, her mind brought up the guilty memory of her wedding night. When Raoul took her, her first time, she had caught Erik's name in her throat, only barely stopping herself from gasping it aloud... after that, there had been many nights when she lay silent by Raoul as he slept, ravished by Erik in her imagination and in heated dreams... she lifted a trembling hand to her throat. Erik's deep, burning eyes wordlessly gave her to know that those dreams could become reality the instant she wished it.</p><p>She drew a shaky breath, shame battling the desire which tightened in her like a coiling spring, as she envisioned his mouth on her bare skin. But no, somehow she couldn't, yet... she took a step back, then another. He would never so much as touch her without permission, she reassured herself, and no matter how the inferno of desire might rage within his eyes. No matter how high the tide of lustful needs might crest within his body, she knew instinctively that he would die before he would force her.</p><p>He made himself break the eye contact between them, fearing that his iron control might snap if he indulged himself in the sight of her any longer, if he let himself drink of the heightened awareness in her crystalline eyes. Woodenly he rose and escorted her back into her room, where she demurely waited for him to turn away before she removed the dressing gown and slipped between the satin sheets of her bed. She trembled as he turned to her, his expressive, sensual fingers lifting the coverlet over her shoulders. She met his eyes, holding her breath.</p><p>Erik at her bedside... the answer to a silent and sinful prayer, the fulfillment of a guilty fantasy. How could she deny him if he lay down beside her now? She could not. She would turn to him, her own hands would help him to tear away the flimsy nightgown, she would be unable to get enough of him. He deserved that love she had withheld so long, and so unjustly! But still a part of her mind resisted the craving of her senses. She was not ready.</p><p>He wrenched himself away and with unusual clumsiness he let himself into her bath chamber to take away the water basin, not allowing himself to look at her again. He left the room swiftly, and Christine, trembling in her bed, heard his key click in the door, heard the soft scraping as he pushed it beneath the threshold and into her room, where he could not reach it.</p><p>"Sleep well," his resonant voice sounded as though he lay beside her on her pillow.</p><p>He let himself lean against the door, his breath coming shallowly. Even now, he might wrench the knob away, and go in to her. She had not been able to disguise the longing in her eyes, but the trembling of her lips had turned him away. She still feared him, her mind shrank from him. He sighed, his fist clenching tightly. Patience. He must keep his patience.</p><p>She sensed rather than heard him as he stepped away from her door. How she wished he were lying with her! The silent tears came, and she clutched the pillow to herself, letting the flood run its course and recede, steeling her mind against the thought of the key, and the door, and the image of him going to sit on his dark throne, silently suffering the cruel disappointment of the lusting, unfulfilled demons which rode rough-shod through his body.</p><p>Day passed, night fell, and once again morning came outside the lightless domain of Erik. The sun rose high before Christine woke from her rest. She lifted her face from the pillow gladly, immediately remembering where she was. She stretched languorously, wondering what had wakened her.</p><p>The long hours of wakeful meditation had calmed Erik, renewing his hope. His heart filled with the joy given him by her presence, he began to sing a rich, wordless melody, knowing she would hear him. His song penetrated the walls softly, inhumanly beautiful, the soaring notes vibrating with his triumph.</p><p>The melody soon grew powerful, alluring, wakening her senses. She felt crisply, cleanly awake, her heart beating in rhythm with the music, her skin alive to the touch of the air. The emotional firestorm of last night had sunk to a memory, and she dismissed it.</p><p>She cast off the wrinkled nightdress and pulled on a rich red velvet gown, lacing the stays without thinking, pulling a brush through her hair, her mind captivated by the enchantment of Erik's voice. The music drew her into the other room. A single candle burned, and she could not tell if Erik had slept or sat waking all through the night, awaiting her.</p><p>He rose, the song changing as he saw her. She experienced his admiration keenly in the rising notes, and involuntarily her voice blended with his in a soft minor counterpoint, self-deprecating. He held out his hands, indicating that she should stand before him, and she found herself responding to the near-contact by altering to a major key in closer harmony with his triumphant theme.</p><p>It was as if nothing had changed between the two of them in the intervening three years. The wordless communication of the music sent a thrill of blissful happiness through her. She had missed her singing so much!</p><p>Erik drank her in endlessly as they sang, appreciating her choice of clothing. The red velvet had always been one of his particular favorites, its neckline enticing but not immodest, the full sleeves demurely covering her arms and slender wrists. The tight bodice enhanced her figure, and the skirt flared to an impressively graceful fall, puddling on the floor in rich shadow. He would have liked to paint her portrait, to capture and own that brilliant look of adoration in her eyes.</p><p>The volume of his song fell gradually, resounding notes falling on her ears like the softest of kisses. She became keenly aware of her quickening heartbeat as his voice caressed her in a manner which his hands had never dared to attempt.</p><p>Today... could today be different? She felt her body responding to his presence. Was it the music which roused her desire for him, or was it his proud posture, the grace of his commanding hands with their long, imploring finges caressing the air in the shape of her silhouette, the swirl of his black cloak around his polished boots as he stepped back, drawing her with him like a puppet on a string? She could not tell... she was ready to give her body to a dream, to surrender her soul to a sound so pure it seemed to be flesh made of song. Could she not feel his hands on her already, in the soft vibration of the notes which poured from his throat? Her fists gathered loosely at her sides, and her head fell back slightly. Would she have to faint for him to take her in his arms? She felt her breast rising and falling swiftly in rhythm with her breathing. Such an unbearably sweet sensation of dizziness...</p><p>He observed her sensual mood, let his song trail away. He would not manipulate her any further with his voice, the blessed, cursed instrument which bent her will to his desires. He removed the wide-brimmed hat and let his cloak fall away, denying the aura of power they lent to him. He wanted to face her as a man, not an angel or a devil. Resigned, he waited patiently for her decision.</p><p>Christine woke from the spell with a visible start, her confusion growing as he dropped his cloak and let his proud shoulders fall. His eyes seemed to dim. He stood still, silently offering himself to her. She could sense the withdrawal of his mind and heart into the private chambers of his soul where he might shield himself from the despair of her rejection. For once he seemed vulnerable rather than commanding.</p><p>How many times, she suddenly wondered, had he asked a woman for her love? How many times had he wished to ask, but known that he must not dare? How many times had rejection slapped him cruelly, wounding the sensitive, trusting parts of his nature? She stared at him, realizing that his chest shook with stifled sobs. How many times had he felt the actual physical pain of unfulfilled desire?</p><p>Not this time, her mind whispered. Never again. Never.</p><p>A rich thrill of anticipation coursed through her. Timidly she stepped forward to him, taking his hands and bringing them to her face. His fingertips ventured to lightly caress her throat.</p><p>His touch sent a keen shiver of exultation through her, and she gasped softly, lifting her hands to cover his. A long moment passed as he looked into her eyes, still asking the silent question, not daring to speak it aloud, not daring to believe the evidence of his senses. She fell into his eyes, the final restraints giving way.</p><p>"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, Erik!" the tears welled in her eyes, tears of her love. Her arms wrapped around him and she pressed herself against his strong chest, savoring the comfort of contact and the end to waiting.</p><p>"I promise, you won't regret this," he whispered unevenly, his faltering breath warm in her ear, enflaming her senses. "It won't be terrible at all. I won't hurt you--" his voice broke and he buried his face in her soft, silken hair. She felt the warm rain of his tears. His arms circled her lightly, as if he feared she would break.</p><p>Her flowing hair fell away as she arched herself against him, accepting his promise. He breathed in the perfume of her skin, softly kissing her throat. Her hand came up to caress him, but she touched the mask. It irritated her. She wanted nothing to come between them, nothing. Her fingers closed on it, prepared to pull it away.</p><p>He stopped her, his hand pressing hers in place, his eyes suddenly doubtful.</p><p>She met his gaze steadily. She had seen the horror of his face before, and the thought of it no longer frightened her. She felt his other hand move to pinch out the single revealing candle, so that she would not have to endure the sight of him when the mask had gone.</p><p>"No," she caught his wrist and stopped him. Lifting her hand, she gently traced his mouth, her fingers loving even as they smoothed across the terrible distortion which marred the right side of his lips beneath the hated mask. Tossing her hair behind her shoulders, she stepped back and unfastened her velvet gown. The material rustled as it slid off her shoulders and toward the floor, revealing her bare flesh. She saw his shoulders rise as he took a long, trembling breath and reached for her. She slid her arms from the sleeves of the gown and it finished its cascade, baring her completely. His breath escaped him in a soft, sobbing moan. Deliberately she stepped forward and took his mask. He made no move to stop her, and the mask joined her gown on the floor.</p><p>Later she lay by his side on her bed... their bed, now, for she'd be damned if she'd let him spend another night in that coffin... and she watched the candles make flickering golden patterns of shadow on his pale skin. His ravaged face lay half in shadow, the side nearest her smooth, peaceful, illuminated by the light. From this angle his deformity was completely hidden and he was perhaps the most desirable man she had ever seen, his chest broad and well-muscled, the unmarred left side of his face well molded, strongly handsome. The single flaw she could see in his body consisted of thin knife-blade and whip scars which interrupted the harmony of his elegant muscled torso in an alarming number of places, the legacy of his struggle to survive in a world of cages and hatred, a world which judged his face rather than his soul.</p><p>Idly she traced one scar with a fingertip, wishing she could make it disappear, wishing she could fully heal the horrible hurts on his face and his spirit.</p><p>He had exhausted himself with her, and now he slept soundly. The fact that her touch did not wake him made her certain he had not slept since he had heard of her return. He must not ignore his health so brazenly. He was no longer truly young, and such abuses would age him before his time. She nestled closer to him, saturating herself in the surprising comfort of his embrace. In the end, it had been very simple, really.</p><p>The scene of their union had played itself out in her imagination so many times that, once surrendered, she had felt no self-consciousness or regret, only the exquisite pleasure of their lovemaking. True to his nature, he had surpassed her wildest imagining, his initial lack of skill swiftly replaced by the intuitive comprehension and relentless perfection which he brought to everything he had ever done. His sense of rhythm and his attention to detail was ever perfect. She smiled. She might have gone on forever, she felt, bruises and breathlessness aside, but his body was not accustomed to the activity. It demanded rest and at last he slept.</p><p>Fearing that he might grow cold, she covered him with the sheet and blanket, pausing first to admire him once more. Raoul de Chagny had been described by many women as a handsome man of fine form, she had been universally envied for her young husband, but he did not rival Erik. The startling secret beauty of her Phantom's body and the incredible pleasure of his touch was something that no other woman would ever share, or even guess!</p><p>The strident bell of Erik's alarm startled her, and she glanced at him with concern. He did not appear to have heard. She carefully slid herself out of his arms, trying not to wake him. She left the room, searching for her dress. Finding it lying next to the grand piano, she slipped into the discarded velvet frock, ignoring the wrinkles it had gathered during its lengthy sojourn on the floor. Smoothing her tangled cloud of hair, she fastened the dress. She would meet this intruder herself. She had a suspicion she knew who it was, anyway.</p><p>Christine drew Erik's cloak around her shoulders. The fires burned low, but his house was always warm enough. Even so, she knew the catacombs were eternally cold. With an impish smile, she also took his hat. If the visitor was not the one she expected, the famous silhouette of the Opera Ghost was the best protection she could contrive for herself.</p><p>Clumsily, unfamiliar with the pole, she pushed his boat across the lake. The lantern's light picked out a man standing on the bank. Raoul, as she had guessed.</p><p>Raoul glared at the boat, unable yet to see that she was not Erik. She felt tempted to laugh. Raoul was unable to contain himself any longer.</p><p>"Tell me now that you have not seen my wife, Monsieur!" He snapped, his voice carrying clearly across the water. "I have caught and thrashed that impertinent brat of yours! I should have known that he and the whore were your spies!"</p><p>Raoul gestured angrily with his right hand, and Christine saw he held a pistol. He lifted it and leveled it at her.</p><p>"Kindly put your gun down!" She ordered him, surprised at the resonant command in her voice. Maybe it was the hat, she thought fleetingly. She gave the pole a final shove and sent the boat aground inexpertly several feet from him.</p><p>Raoul's arm went limp and the pistol dropped to the shore.</p><p>"Christine!" His voice was pained. "What are you doing, why are you wearing that--"</p><p>"That is my business," she informed him coldly. "If I want to wear this, I may!"</p><p>"Good God." His voice dropped with horror. "I really can't believe you've gone back to him." He took several determined steps forward, raising his lantern. "Look at you! Mon Dieu!" He lifted her chin with a finger. His eyes grew horrified. Christine wondered what he was staring at, then understood. Guiltily she raised her hand to cover her mouth. After his initial shyness melted away and he gained confidence, Erik had at times been delightfully daring in his passion. More than once his teasing mouth had made her cry out with ecstasy. He must have marked her flesh. Not permanently, but enough to incite Raoul to fury.</p><p>"I can't believe what I'm seeing!" Raoul bellowed. "The monster raped you! I'll kill him!" His eyes glittered wildly and he whirled to retrieve his pistol. He snatched it up from the mud.</p><p>"No!" her voice rang out, furious. She stepped forward and the circles of their lantern light combined once more. The unfair accusation infuriated her. "Erik is not a monster, and he has never touched me against my will! Look well at me, Raoul! He made these marks on me, yes!"</p><p>She lifted her head proudly, tossing back her hair, and Raoul's sharp intake of breath let her know that Erik had marked her neck, as well. "With love he put them on me, with a stronger passion than you and I ever shared!" Her voice fell as a pent-up anger in her was released, an anger born of a thousand slights, a thousand thankless tasks. "I returned to him on my own, I went to him willingly, I gave myself to him!" She reached up, yanked the neckline of her gown down several inches on her chest. These marks she could see for herself without a mirror, the red roses that blossomed where Erik's mouth had lingered on her.</p><p>She caressed one with her fingertips. "This one he made when he first took me." Her mind wavered against the pain she caused Raoul, but she could not stop. She indicated another. "This one, the tenth time." She drew a powerful, passionate breath. It was as if Erik's personality had pervaded her own when he entered her body, as if it had surrounded her when she pulled on his cloak. She pressed her hand to an expanse of untouched skin, golden in the lantern light. She met Raoul's shocked eyes. "This one," she whispered, shocked at her own audacity, "he will make tomorrow!"</p><p>Raoul's eyes flared with a rage that would have done Erik credit. "That he will not!" He grabbed her arm and shook her forcefully.</p><p>He jerked her against him and Erik's cloak and hat fell away, divesting her of the sense of power and control. Her lantern fell from her hand and rolled to the water's edge, where blazing oil leaked out, spreading into a small slick of fire on the water, flames licking the side of the boat.</p><p>"I'm taking you home with me," Raoul hissed. "You're my wife!"</p><p>"No!" She began to struggle in earnest. Raoul dropped the gun, fearing that he might accidentally shoot her as she fought him.</p><p>Unfortunately the pistol fell at the edge of the fire and the licking flames ignited the gunpowder. The gun went off with a thunderous explosion, sending the bullet skipping against the water's surface and ricocheting past her with a furious whine. She screamed, partly with fright and partly with her indignation at Raoul's rough handling.</p><p>Seemingly out of nowhere, Erik materialized behind Raoul and his hands met around the nobleman's throat. Raoul released Christine, his fingers struggling to pry away Erik's strangling grip.</p><p>Christine realized dimly that Erik must have wakened when she rose and followed her, swimming along silently behind the boat. When Raoul shook her, he had risen from the water to come to her defense.</p><p>He had paused in his pursuit only to clothe himself enough for modesty to be preserved. The black trousers which were all he wore had been spoiled by the dark lakewater. A trickle of blood escaped from a shallow, eight-inch long fingerwide line on his ribs, and Christine realized that the same bullet which narrowly missed her had not missed him. He had moved so swiftly that she had not even seen him come past her, even as the bullet fired.</p><p>She fell back against the cold stone wall which bounded the lake, stunned by the spectacle before her. Erik was considerably older than Raoul, his flesh pale in contrast to the Vicomte's sun- browned arms, but he was very strong compared to Raoul, his muscles tempered by his long savage life. The boyish nobleman had grown soft during his marriage to Christine, and could not hope to match his foe in a contest of strength.</p><p>Erik's eyes blazed with a frightening fire. Raoul's face twisted as he struggled to free himself from the unexpected attack. Maddened by desperation and anger, the two men struggled titanically, each determined to subdue his bitterest rival.</p><p>Erik's painful wound stole some of the strength from his arms, and Raoul broke away from the stranglehold. The advantage wavered back and forth briefly, till Erik deftly twisted Raoul's leg out from under him, a cruel wrestling trick the younger man did not know. Raoul fell hard, with a groan.</p><p>Erik paused over Raoul's prone body, his hand gripping a glittering knife he had taken from its sheath on his rival's belt. His blazing blue eyes met Christine's. A fleeting instant of eternity passed between them in silent communication.</p><p>Erik threw the knife as hard as he could, far out over the water, and it splashed into the lake and sank. He shoved Raoul with his foot.</p><p>"Stand up," he commanded harshly, extending his hand to pull Raoul to his feet.</p><p>Raoul got up painfully, ignoring the offer of help, favoring his injured leg and back. He stared at his enemy, his eyes wrathful. His pointed glare drew Christine's mind to Erik's bare torso, and she noticed for the first time that she had lost control of herself in the height of their lovemaking. She had not been as gentle with Erik as he had been with her: her nails had scored him in half a dozen places.</p><p>"Was she forced to fight you as I was, Monsieur?" Raoul shouted, gesturing with rage at the bleeding marks of Christine's fingernails on Erik's body. "Did you throw her to the ground unfairly, as you threw me? Did you give her your hand to help her rise when you had finished with her?"</p><p>Christine irritably realized that Raoul still did not believe she had gone willingly into Erik's bed. Perhaps this was an understandable error. She had never been so carried away by the act of making love to Raoul that she had injured him, after all. Therefore, he reasoned that only rape could have induced her to make those scratches. Or perhaps, she thought, his stupid pride just can't accept that he couldn't keep me... either way, it no longer matters.</p><p>Erik began to laugh, an eerie triumphant sound which rolled on and on. "Did she fight you on your wedding night, Monsieur?" he mocked Raoul. "I dare say she did not fight you half so willingly and well as she has fought me!"</p><p>Raoul flushed with embarrassed rage. "Christine, come with me." He pleaded. "You'll be safe from him, I promise you. He'll never touch you again. Please, Christine!"</p><p>Erik's eyes leveled on Christine, and she sensed the sudden dismay beneath his calm facade. Would his beloved go with her rightful husband? She had left him before. He steeled himself, withdrew his vulnerable emotions lest she do so again. It was the same look he had given her when he feared her rejection, and she found herself feeling a fierce protective instinct. She would not see him hurt!</p><p>Christine took a deep breath. She had loved Raoul, yes... but she now knew she loved Erik. Erik, whom she alone could redeem from his solitary savagery, Erik who adored her-- Erik, who would give his soul to keep her with him... The glorious hours spent lying with him had shown her something she long known but never admitted: now that her fear of him had gone she knew she had always loved and desired him, much more than she had ever loved Raoul.</p><p>Slowly she removed her wedding ring from her finger. Under Erik's watchful eye, she stepped to Raoul and pressed it into his hand. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "Forgive me."</p><p>"Christine!" Raoul muttered with anguish. "After what he's done to you--"</p><p>She shook her head, furious once more. "He has done nothing to harm me!" She stamped her small foot, an effect which was ruined by the lakeside mud. "I love him! I go with him of my own free will, gladly!" She turned and her eyes shone at Erik. "I belong with Erik, Raoul."</p><p>Erik stepped to her and slid his arm about her waist.</p><p>"We were so happy," Raoul protested. "You can sing anywhere you like, Christine. Please, come back with me. Don't do this. You don't know what you're saying. He's brainwashed you, Christine, just like before--"</p><p>"You were happy, Raoul." Christine sighed, her eyes filled with pity. "I was not." She felt the reassuring touch of Erik's arm supporting her. "If you love me, you'll go. And don't return."</p><p>Raoul stood, stunned, staring at her blankly for a long moment. Then, with a final tortured look, he stumbled away into the catacombs. He would come back for her, he knew. He would have her back again, as soon as he understood how it might be done. Even if he had to wait for the monster to die...</p><p>Christine sagged against Erik, wondering why one or the other of them did not cry. The flames from the shattered lantern sank low. He helped her into the scorched boat, picking up his cloak and draping it around her shoulders. His eyes were alight with an emotion she had never seen in him before... could it be amusement?... and he pressed his hat onto her curls, adjusting it to the proper roguish angle. "Madame le Phantom," he saluted her with a courteous bow. He retrieved the pole from the water, where it floated silently.</p><p>Christine looked up at his words, startled by his chosen form of address, and laughter rose from her throat unexpectedly. "Oui, Monsieur le Phantom," she replied, trying to look stern and menacing at him from under the hat. His laughter joined hers and he sent the boat sliding silently across the lake to their home.</p><p>End.</p>
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